Chapter 4
By Deirdre Riordan (nicomaureen) and resqgal
Harry stared after Snape a few moments longer and sat down heavily on the piano bench, firewhiskey still in hand. He looked at the bottle, and found that now he'd won what he was after, he was no longer particularly interested in it. He took a drink anyway, though, and let the liquor burn its way down. They didn't call it firewhiskey for nothing, that much was certain. He sighed and set the bottle down. Severus Snape had, in the last hour or so, become even more of an enigma, a feat that Harry had scarcely believed possible. The drastic personality change baffled him. Had Voldemort really broken him so badly that no vestige of the man he'd seen tonight was normally apparent, or had it been something else? Snape had only said 'before things happened,' and Harry was reasonably sure the Potions Master had taken the Mark well before the age of twenty-eight. What else could it have been? Harry supposed it could have been Voldemort's return in his first year, but Snape had seemed no different that year than in any other-- if anything, the man had since mellowed a bit. Something must have happened in between, and Harry resolved to find out.
Harry made a second resolution, which was that Snape was not going to be allowed to go to bed just yet. He had, after all, asked for a song. Harry opened the piano and laid his fingers on the keys. They looked strange there, his hands. They were his, but they weren't. They were a little too large, the fingers a little too long. He wondered if his father's hands had looked this way. That thought caused a pang within him, but he pushed it aside and began to play. Harry had started learning to play the piano after Sirius' death. In those dark days the instrument had given him much-needed solace. He had taught himself almost entirely (the only help having been from a few books), practising late at night on the piano in his aunt and uncle's house under a silencing charm that Dumbledore had procured him special permission to use. Even now almost no one knew that Harry played. He took the same late-night walks as always, but his destination had more often than not been the Room of Requirement, where a grand piano and sheet music would obligingly appear for him.
Dumbledore told him that when a wizard played an instrument, some of his magic was transferred into the music. Harry loved the subtle tingle of enchantment that flowed through his fingertips. He concentrated on the magic and the music, and the rest of the world melted away. He forgot about the potion, all about Snape and his strange behaviour, and just let the notes carry him. When he was finished, he opened his eyes and sighed. He had needed that.
"Chopin, Opus 66, Fantasie Impromptu," came a silky voice from behind him that nearly caused him to jump out of his skin. "I had no idea you had taste, Potter, or talent."
Harry wheeled around to face Snape, ready with a retort. The words died on his lips at the sight of the man, leaning against the doorway with his hair hanging in his face, clad in nothing but a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms. "I suppose I'm just full of surprises," Harry said softly, barely finding his voice.
Snape was at his side in an instant. Harry gasped, not even having seen him cross the room. He could smell cinnamon and musk, with hints of lavender and mint. He had the sudden urge to bury his face in the smooth chest and drown himself in those scents. Snape bent down, leaving their faces just inches apart. Harry held his breath. He felt dizzy, light-headed, nothing made sense anymore. What was Snape going to do? A thousand little needles were prickling all over Harry's body. Oh God, he's going to...
Snape picked up the firewhiskey from the floor and straightened up, smirking. "Well, I suppose you're entitled to a drink after all," he almost-whispered, producing two glasses.
Harry took the proffered drink, still shaky and breathless. What did I think he was doing, anyway? Okay, so I thought he was going to kiss me. And I wanted him to. Great Merlin, what's this body done to my brain?
Snape raised his glass. "What shall we drink to?" he asked in that same silky undertone.
"Second chances?" Harry said tremulously. He wanted to smack himself for saying that. What was he doing, letting Snape see his discomfort like this?
The smirk left the Slytherin's face. "To second chances, then," he said, touching the edge of his glass with Harry's and looking him straight in the eyes. Harry felt as though he'd been penetrated to his very soul and shivered, downing the whiskey in one gulp. "Or maybe tenth chances," muttered the Potions Master, staring into his drink.
"What was that, sir?" Harry asked, despite the fact that he had heard perfectly well.
Snape sighed. "Nothing, Potter," he said, suddenly looking very tired.
Harry was powerless to stop the movement of his hand, even as he watched it, with something like disbelief, move to lift Snape's chin and look into his eyes. "I don't believe you," he said, fighting the tremor that threatened to creep into his voice.
Snape wrenched his chin out of Harry's grasp. "I'm used to that."
Harry grabbed Snape's arm. "You shouldn't be."
"My life, Potter, has been a long series of second chances, from the Ministry, from Dumbledore, from the Dark Lord-- I am never allowed to forget that I am only where I am today by someone or other's good graces."
"Dammit, Snape, I know you've had a hard life, Merlin knows I of all people should understand, but you can't just mutter things and not explain them! That's twice tonight you've done it, and I don't think you would have if you didn't somehow want me to know!"
Snape's eyes widened, and for a moment Harry feared a tirade and the loss of House points. But Snape just sighed again. He'd never seen the man sigh so much as he had tonight-- in fact, he was nearly certain he'd never seen Snape sigh. "Perhaps, Potter, perhaps."
"Well?" He still hadn't let go of Snape's arm.
"If you insist upon prying into my personal affairs, Potter, and I'm sure this is more information than you want from your greasy Potions professor, but once upon a time, I had a lover, someone I lived for and would have died for. The year before you came to Hogwarts, that person received the Dementor's Kiss for being a Death Eater."
Harry was very, very sorry he'd asked. "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, then fumbled in the silence for something appropriate to say. "What was her name?"
"His name, Potter, was Stephen."
~tbc~
A big thank you to all our reviewers!